


In Dark or Disguise

by cowboy_cannibal



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Cannibalism, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is a Cannibal, Hannibal eats a bitch, Hannibal is jealous that someone copied his murders lmao, Hannibal wants to eat Will, M/M, Murder Husbands, Oral Sex, Protective Hannibal Lecter, Romance, Sassy Will Graham, Seduction, Serial Killers, Slow Burn, Will has a dark and disturbing past wow not typical at all, Will's autism is not erased take that Bryan Fuller, Winston is a total wingman, hannibal and will are unnecessarily horny, how am I asexual and writing gay cannibal sex scenes wtf, mmmmmm organs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28169061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cowboy_cannibal/pseuds/cowboy_cannibal
Summary: When Will Graham is faced with yet another vicious killer, he finds that he is spiralling further and further into his unique brand of darkness. Struggling to stay afloat amidst the minds of murderers, he reluctantly confides in Doctor Hannibal Lecter for help with the most recent string of violent deaths. He soon realises he needs Hannibal more than ever as his past slowly resurfaces and returns to haunt him.Hannibal welcomes WIll under the pretence of helping him whilst plotting his eventual consumption. However, as Hannibal delves into the far corners of Will's mind he finds himself irrevocably attracted to him - beyond the need to eat him.
Relationships: Will Graham & Hannibal Lecter, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	In Dark or Disguise

“Please, come in.”

Will regarded Hannibal’s composed, calm manner. He’d heard the faint traces of someone leaving through the patient’s exit and a rustling of paper before Hannibal opened the door. He always had the same seven o'clock appointment every Thursday evening, despite not being an actual patient. The last appointment of the day, every time. Will had never bothered to ask when Hannibal’s practice closed or if he was inconveniencing him.

Truth be told, Will dreaded his sessions and thought it better to be as unpleasant as possible without venturing to the borders of rudeness. Best to distance himself from everyone, especially his psychiatrist. 

Will stood on unsteady feet and gathered his briefcase and coat. Both were ratty and somewhat pathetic to look at, like long-dead animals found along the side of the road. He found himself fretting over his wardrobe whenever he was to see Hannibal. Intimidated by his meticulously tailored suits and overall sophistication, Will’s flannel and dog-hair combination was hardly any comparison. He liked his clothes, for the most part. Sure, his boots were scuffed, and his shirt hems had the occasional loose thread, but they were comfortable and secure. It’s just that for whatever reason, Hannibal always brought these faults to light without ever mentioning them. With distaste, Will noticed a small moth hole in his jacket collar and resigned himself to die if Hannibal ever saw it.

Hannibal stepped aside to allow Will into the office and closed the door behind them. Will placed his jacket and case on one of the chairs and took up pacing along the length of Hannibal’s desk, resisting the urge to chew at the corner of his thumb.

“Something is eating you,” said Hannibal with an appraising glance over Will.

“Isn’t that the regular basis of therapy?” Will snapped in return. His pacing did not cease. Hannibal elegantly folded himself into the chair opposite Will’s belongings.

“Something new, then. Is this case particularly alarming?”

“I’m not on the case. Yet.”

“Jack did not call on you?”

“Oh, he did. The crime scene is out in Michigan. Told me to get my things and head out first thing this morning. He couldn’t come himself, for whatever reason. I woke up at eight-thirty and found myself out in the field about a mile from my house. I missed the flight, missed thirteen calls from Jack and got back to find one of my lures missing. He sent Beverly out to check on me and now I need another psych eval. Go ahead, Dr Lecter. Psychoanalyze away.”

Will pulled his stuff off the chair and sat down, facing Hannibal. He looked him in the eyes, a feat he couldn’t pull off with most people. It had been one of his regular nightmares. The antlers, the gun, the blood spots blooming across Garret Jacob Hobbs’ shirt were all amplified and echoed like thundering water in his head as he dragged his knife through Abigail’s throat. Alana’s throat. Hobbs’ throat. His own throat, blood rushing from him as he sank further into the hungry jaws of the darkness. He couldn’t understand why it had led to sleepwalking. He hadn’t done it for a while. Beverly had found him cold and with muddied feet in the grass. At least it hadn’t snowed.

“Was the subject matter of your dreams any different to previous ones?” Hannibal asked. He tilted his head slightly as if to see Will better. His attention was fixed wholly on him. Will swallowed and gripped his knees, uncomfortable to be on the receiving end of such a gaze. He could never tell if Hannibal was intrigued or disgusted by him when he looked at him like that. Whatever it was, it always summoned a strange and fluttery feeling in Will’s gut.

“No.” 

“Has anything happened recently that was out of the ordinary?”

A few strange incidents had occurred. One was Winston having eaten carrots and thrown them up on the porch, despite not having been fed them or Will having none in the house. Another was a transfer student from an Academy in Oregon who was very intent on trying to ask Will questions about cases (barely tolerable) or his personal life (two-thousand-word essay punishment worthy). The worst, however, was a call from his past.

Will had been drinking a finger of whiskey (cheaply made and tasted like gasoline, Hannibal would be appalled) the previous afternoon when he got home early as his students were attending a guest lecture. He had been encouraged to attend as well but he did not care for whatever nonsensical behaviour studies they had discovered this time. He was content to work on his fishing lures for the evening as his persistent headache had been only a mild throb for the whole day. The first small bit of relaxation he had experienced in the past few months was shattered by a phone call.

“I got a call,” Will said, breaking away from Hannibal’s eyes to look at his hands, which were gracefully clasped together around his knee. “It was from an old friend. I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“Why did he call?”

“His name is Edward Stormer. We all used to call him Eddie.” Will’s voice caught slightly at the mention of his name. He had never brought up his past life and childhood to anyone since he was twenty. “He said he was up here for work for a while and we could meet up again if I wanted.” 

Will waited for Hannibal to pry. Who was Eddie to him? Why was he so hesitant? What happened between them? As a psychiatrist, it was his job to peel information away and knock at locked doors that he concealed deep within himself. He didn’t. He merely blinked once. 

“Would you like to see him?” Hannibal asked instead.

“I don’t know,” Will replied and stood up to resume his pacing. His blood was pounding in his ears in an erratic rhythm and a tightness in his chest made him draw breaths in short, sharp gasps. Digging up everything he buried with Eddie would be nightmare fuel and then some. However, the idea of getting closure was enticing. Maybe they would have coffee like normal acquaintances do and then go their separate ways forever. Will had written down Eddie’s current address and number and folded the paper into one of his forensic textbooks. His uncertainty twisted his stomach into knots. He viewed mangled bodies on the regular, dealt with all forms of painful odours and spent hours in the minds of killers, yet the idea of facing a mildly disconcerting situation was enough to nauseate him. He tried to breathe normally but failed. His hands trembled.

Hannibal stood and stepped in front of Will, blocking his path. Will tried for another gulp of air but couldn’t manage it. His vision started to swim. All he could see was Hannibal looking annoyingly calm as he reached to grasp Will around the shoulders. 

“Breathe, Will,” Hannibal said in an astutely controlled manner with all the force of a sharp command. He guided him back to the chair and sat Will down, kneeling next to him and examining for signs of symptoms in need of immediate medical attention. Will gripped Hannibal’s forearm – expensive suit and all – in an attempt to ground himself. He sucked in a shuddering breath. Then another. He waited for the fog of his thoughts to clear again before the next and found himself staring at Hannibal whose palm was on his forehead.  
“No fever, and not a seizure,” Hannibal concluded, removing his hand from Will’s face. His other hand remained on Will’s shoulder, as if afraid he would crumble to dust the moment he let go. “It was a mild panic attack, a remnant from your troubled evening.” 

A bitter taste crept on to Will’s tongue as his shivers subsided. “That hasn’t happened in a while,” he mentioned and instantly regretted it. Perfect opportunity for interrogation and uncomfortable questions. Even though he had been talking to Hannibal regularly and about the alarming psychological subject matter, Will had omitted as much of his past life as he could. Hannibal offered nothing similar about himself and Will had not dared ask. The panic attacks were a frequent occurrence when he was younger and lasted all the way until his mid-twenties. They were caused by all manner of things like sensory overload or general anxiety. He’d thrown himself into work as a cop and later for the FBI as a means of distraction. It had worked. Until now.

Hannibal started to say something but was cut off by Will’s ringtone. Will fished for the offending device from his floor-flung jacket and immediately declined. “I’m not talking to Jack Crawford tonight,” he explained when Hannibal raised his eyebrow in a curious expression. The phone blared again. Will put it on silent. 

“A wise decision, you should not be further stressed tonight,” Hannibal said. He let go of Will’s shoulder and returned to his seat as if confident that Will was no longer going to disappear. “Tell me, Will, when was the last time you felt truly rested?”

“You know I never sleep well.” Will’s phone was vibrating noisily in his lap. He placed it in his briefcase.

“No, not sleep. Rest. Peace, as though you are Atlas and your burdens have been lifted away.”

Will pondered for a moment, fiddling with a stray thread at the hem of his shirt. “I went fishing a few summers ago up in Montana. Took the dogs with me. Classes were out and I had no cases – I wasn’t even in the field. Caught fish. Cooked fish. Ate fish. Stayed in a small lake house that was going for cheap because half the roof was missing.” It had been early summer and the missing roof compensated for the lack of air conditioner. The lake was deserted, most schools hadn’t closed yet, and travel preparations had not been made. He took this as an opportunity to swim – an activity he rarely participated in lest he was besieged by surfacing memories of life on the docks and the scent of salt. “I swam,” he added. A confession.

Hannibal realised this and was about to question further when he was again cut off by a ringtone. This came from his own work phone on the desk; the shrill ringing cut away whatever hidden revelations that had perched on Will’s tongue, ready to bare all to Hannibal’s keen stare. Hannibal, thoroughly disgruntled, stood to answer it. “Hello?” he said with menace. It was awfully rude of the caller to interrupt a session in such a manner, but ruder still to not answer the call. A garbled voice came through and Hannibal’s mouth tightened, very slightly. “You had better speak, Will,” Hannibal said and held out the phone. Will stood and took it, answering with a cautious greeting.

“Where the hell have you been?” Jack demanded through the speaker. 

“Psych eval, like you asked.” Will did not feel bad for being an ass. 

“There’s been another.”

“Like this morning?”

“Worse. And in Virginia.”

“How did the killer hightail it here from Michigan? Surely they weren’t fool enough to fly?”

“Just get here. Bring Doctor Lecter too. Quickly.” The line cut off.

Will handed the phone back to Hannibal. “Another murder,” Will informed him. “Jack asked you to come as well.” 

“I’ll drive us, in case you feel unwell again,” Hannibal said. He was unimpressed by Jack’s timing, even though Will’s appointment was out of office hours anyway. His time with Will was something he looked forward to every week and to have it interrupted was frustrating indeed.

“We can take my car.” Will had resumed his pacing. “It’s already out front.”

Will made for the door but turned back halfway after realising he had forgotten his jacket. Hannibal already had it and held it out to him. He either had not noticed the moth hole or was politely ignoring it. Will assumed the later and true to his promise earlier, he resigned himself to die. He accepted the jacket and shrugged it on before Hannibal could inspect it further. Hannibal caught his arm, gently but with a firm grip, and Will looked him in the eyes again. They were blank, with unknown emotions swimming beneath the calm surface. Depths of dark and desire – a window to a soul Will didn’t think existed. That same fluttery feeling re-emerged like he was an awkward and gangly teenager again about to present a speech in front of the class. 

“If you feel the anxiety creeping in again,” Hannibal said, his voice dusky and smooth with a sharp edge of some unknown feeling, “Tell me please, Will. I’ll tell Jack you aren’t well enough to work.”

Will swallowed and nodded, not breaking his stare until Hannibal released him and headed for the door.

______________

The crime scene was unholy.

The Chesapeake Ripper murders had always been gory and gruesome, perhaps the worst Will had ever seen. Knowing that some of his victims were alive when they were brutalized was additionally sickening. Will had become more accustomed to his murders due to spending far too long inside the Ripper’s head. He understood how he elevated his victims to masterpieces. The Ripper took the unmentionably ugly and turned it into raw beauty. His killing was art.

This was not the Ripper. This was not art.

This was savagery.

The body was no longer a remotely human shape. Mangled swaths of flesh and bone lay strewn in a constricting spiral. From whatever wasn’t cut up or shredded, it seemed all the body parts were there. No trophies. Blood decorated the mess in a glistening sheen of red. Organs were scattered in what seemed to be a specific pattern: intestines at the outer end of the spiral and the major ones towards the centre. The bones were shattered and stuck out at odd ends from larger bits of muscle and tendon. The skull was carelessly tossed aside, not even within the spiral and destroyed nearly beyond recognition.

The worst was the centrepiece. The entirety of the brain sat in the middle of the horror, on a plate, so preserved that one optic nerve and attached eyeball were still intact. The plate was simple white ceramic, the kind found at any large store. It was absent of any blood other than what remnants had been left by the brain, which seemed to have been cleaned off before being presented. 

It sent chills down Will’s spine, so much so that his teeth chattered. 

FBI personnel inspected the edges of the spiral, uncertain yet about venturing inwards. Price, Zeller, and Beverly were there, locked in deep conversation. Zeller seemed faintly green and panicky. Jack was commanding around a poor police cadet who seemed sick to the stomach. The stench of rot had not yet settled and permeated the air. The kill was still very fresh. Even Hannibal appeared slightly taken aback, more by his rigid manner than by any outward expression.

“Will!” called Jack and headed towards them, unsteady on the ground. They were out near a small patch of woodland far behind a dingy motel and diner; the area was left wild and riddled with upturned stones and roots. “Good thing you’re here.”

“Was it like this in Michigan?” Will asked. His voice was strained and soft. He cleared his throat. He couldn’t look away from the corpse if it could even be called that. In his peripheral vision, he saw police taping off the area. 

“No. Body was three days old and only segmented at the joints and organs. Mostly intact, like a puzzle. Same arrangement, with the brain and all. We left a few transfer agents there and called the rest back for this.”

Will stayed quiet for a moment. “Who found the body?”

“Some kids. They were holed up in the motel to drink. Doctor Lecter,” Jack turned to Hannibal, who was still eyeing the scene with barely concealed distaste. “Would you mind tending to those kids actually? They are quite shaken up.”

Hannibal, who was even further unimpressed by the assigned babysitting, said nothing but drifted towards the ambulance where three teenagers sat bundled in shock blankets and nursed a single bottle wrapped in brown paper, despite the cops present at nearly every turn. They looked forlorn and wild, like creatures from another world. One with deep brown skin and dreadlocks watched Will and Jack with keen interest. His friends, both with shoddy box dye jobs, laughed loudly but he didn’t seem to hear.

“Is this the Chesapeake Ripper?” Jack asked.

Will shook his head.

“Why not?”

“This…” Will trailed off and had to recollect himself. “This is brutal. It’s savage.”

“That centre part has Ripper written all over it.”

“No. The Ripper equates his works to a fine art. He has a dignity about his murders, a deadly understanding of the lovely and the grotesque. That brain is if you would pardon the pun, the eye of the storm. This is someone who has killed with nothing but pure violence on his mind. There is no care, no guidance, no artful arrangements. The killer brutalized the body with no discernible purpose other than to simply wreak havoc.” Will was vaguely aware of Freddie Lounds lurking beyond the police tape, her hair a bright speck of colour against the dark woods. She’d probably captured every word he’d said. He found that he didn’t care. “Whoever this victim was wasn’t ugly to the killer, like the Ripper murders. They were simply in the way.”

Jack considered Will’s words with a fierce intensity, looked at him and then motioned Will closer to the body. “Clear out!” he called to agents and lab techs lingering at the edges of the carnage. “Give Will some space.”

Will stepped forward and managed to catch Hannibal’s eye from the ambulance. The kids he was attending were now focused on Will and Hannibal equally so. He rarely got an opportunity to see Will use his gift so openly and without faltering. 

Will breathed deep and watched the scene open up in front of him.

“The distraction has been subdued,” he said, entirely to himself. He did the best he could to piece together an image of a woman from the intact uterus, shreds of blonde hair and the blue eye colour from the mess of the body. He was standing over the woman, her hands knotted with cable ties or rope or chains – he couldn’t tell. He looked her over once with nothing but distaste and dismissal. She struggled against her bonds and screamed, but no one could hear her out here.

“I use my knife and carve a precise line into her abdomen. She screams.” Will plunged the blade into the woman, dragging from her diaphragm to below her navel. “There is no need for care or consideration. She was in my way. She blocked my goals. It is only fair she repays me with what she can.” Will thrust his hands into his victim and relished her strangled cries. He began tearing, pulling out bits of viscera as fast as they would come. His arms were a whirlwind of movement as he desecrated his kill and flung her back into the grasps of nature. Soon, she stopped her fighting when her lungs were finally snatched away and tossed into the night.

Will regarded the twisted body and began working whatever was left apart with the knife, splintering this stone into usable pieces. Once done, he began laying the brickwork of his genius, his unavoidable storm. Guts and gore and blood all aligning to demonstrate the raw power he felt when devastating this obstacle. The final was the brain and eye, the remaining eye damaged in the capture. Worthless. This was the only part that required skill and dexterity. Removing the brain and pulling through the eye as the centre of calm amidst the tempest of chaos.

Will stepped back and observed his work. “This is my design.”

He blinked and found himself at the centre of the spiral, next to the brain. It seemed that he had navigated his way in without disturbing any elements. Hannibal watched on with a blank expression that cleverly concealed interest. The kids he was with seemed more focused on their drink, but the same one from earlier watched Will with the same intensity as Hannibal, albeit far more obvious.

Will picked out his way back to Jack, his legs shaking slightly. “This killer is…” he could barely manage the words. “It’s like nothing I’ve ever seen. There seems to be no purpose but somehow there is. It’s a total contradiction. Mindless brutality and careful placement. Creation and destruction. The victim was an obstacle in the path of this storm and was swept aside. What she did to the killer is completely irrelevant. This could be revenge or annoyance or boredom; it would have ended the same way.”

“We’ll start getting parts back to the lab,” Jack said, his voice as demanding as ever. “I’ll forward the case file once we have positive IDs on the victims – this one and the one from Michigan."

“Not looking forward to that,” Price said, appearing from somewhere and tagged by Zeller. “Prints would be near impossible, dentals as well.”

Zeller muttered something, clearly disturbed in contrast to Price’s usual chipper self. Even Beverly looked unnerved despite her calm exterior. 

“Come on, let’s get to work,” she said in a voice that was too soft.

Will looked into the centre of the slaughter and found himself staring at his own reflection. A mirror image of him, except spattered in blood and gore and holding a wicked looking machete. The reflection swung the blade deftly around its hand and grinned with malice. It took the machete and drove it through the brain which morphed into various and unrecognizable faces before vanishing. The reflection sprouted antlers from its head and neck and held the machete out to Will, daring him closer.

Will did his best to look away.

______________

Hannibal was waiting by Will’s car when Will had finished. He approached looking distraught and unsettled as much as he had tried to calm himself down, which Hannibal had noticed. The faint nauseous feeling had returned, and Will could feel a headache pricking at the corners of his skull.

A small snowfall had started, tiny flakes and a biting wind blew through Will’s hair. The snow wouldn’t stick and would be gone in a matter of hours, leaving the roads slushy. He wasn’t looking forward to driving home, even though it was a shorter distance than what he normally drove. He didn’t want to look in the mirrors of the car either, scared of whatever elk-like creatures waited for him in his own mind. He noticed his hands were cold and raw, so he shoved them into his pockets.  
“I have seen my fair share of human bodies,” Hannibal said, gazing at Will, “but none quite so awful as this.” His voice had its usual clear and sharp note, but there was a tinge of something akin to disappointment to it. Will ignored it and blamed his headache.

“It… yeah it really is something.”

“Will, you don’t look well.”

Will glared down at his boots, caked in dirt and a faint smudge of blood. Hannibal’s Italian leather loafers remained pristine as ever, the dark glossy shoes perfectly matched with one of his customary plaid suits and a sturdy but elegant overcoat. The cold began to sneak through his clothes, and he realized he was not prepared for the weather. “Just tired,” he murmured and rubbed a hand across his eyes. His glasses weren’t on and weren’t in either of his pockets, which was mildly alarming but not an immediate problem. 

“I’ll drive you home.”

“No, I need to take you back.”

“You’re not in any condition to drive.”

“How will you get home?”

“I can call a cab.” Hannibal held up Will’s car keys. “You have no room for argument.”

Will huffed, glared at Hannibal with what energy he could muster and walked over to the passenger side of the car.

The drive was passed in comfortable silence. Will was staring out the window and trying not to dwell on any of his thoughts and hallucinations, while Hannibal stole discreet glances at him as he drove. The world flashed by in darkness with the occasional spot of a streetlight guiding the way. Will had his window slightly lowered and let the cold night wind wash over him. Snow fell in little flurries and clung to the corners of the windshield like tears waiting to spill.

Will roused himself and dug in his pockets for the bottle of aspirin in his jacket. He shook out two and swallowed them dry. The thrumming in his head had grown to a distinct pounding. Unable to resist it further, he gnawed at the corner of his thumb.

“Thanks,” he said softly to Hannibal. “You know, for driving me. I… don’t think I would have managed.”

“Of course, Will,” Hannibal responded. “Your health is incredibly important, psychological or otherwise. I am afraid I must insist on performing an examination once we have reached.”

Will started his protests when a sharp pain lancing through his skull cut him off. Hannibal gave him a sideways glance and Will pretended not to see it.  
When the car pulled up to the house, a cacophony of barking arose. Hannibal cut the engine and they both climbed out, Will huddled against the wind. Opening the door let out a barrage of furry bodies who all eagerly leapt around Will. He laughed and made sure to pet each one in greeting. Will motioned Hannibal inside where he was trailed to the kitchen by hungry dogs whose dinner was overdue. Will began the process of scooping out kibble for all of them while Hannibal closed the door and convinced the fireplace to produce some modicum of warmth. 

With the dogs fed and nothing to distract him from the persistent pain of his headache, Will resigned himself to Hannibal’s seemingly unnecessary health check. He checked his eyesight and all kinds of other nonsense. Winston became increasingly interested in the thermometer when Hannibal tried to take Will’s temperature and had tried to snatch it out of his hands at least thrice. He was successful on his next attempt, clamping it firmly in his jaws and bounding off before Will could stop him. He leaned against the kitchen counter and allowed a slight smile to tug at his lips. Hannibal, not very impressed, gently grasped Will’s chin and forehead and held him like that for a few seconds. Will dearly hoped that Hannibal had not caught the slight hitch in his breath. 

“Since your friend can’t seem to respect the necessity of examining your wellbeing and has interfered with the equipment, I hope you’ll forgive me for resorting to such a primitive method for the second time this evening,” Hannibal said. “Although, it oftentimes more effective. The judgement of skin-on-skin contact is not one to be overlooked.”

“I don’t think the thermometer would have helped much,” Will replied. “Damn thing’s probably older than I am.” He was fixated on Hannibal’s face, drinking in the sharp cheekbones and knife-sharp gaze that flicked over Will with such precision that it was if it was surgery. The firelight cast his features in a warm glow, like a marble statue painted with layers of reds and golds. His hands were firm but comforting, callused. Steady. Surgeon’s hands.

Hannibal removed his hands from Will’s face and regarded him. “No fever for now. No signs of an oncoming seizure either. All you need is some food and rest.”

Will rolled his eyes. “Thanks for saving me a hundred dollars from going to the GP and hearing the same thing, Doctor Lecter.”

“Seriously Will,” Hannibal said with grave eyes. “You need to eat and sleep more. It’s wearing you thin.”

“I can’t control the sleep, and I eat enough.” He was annoyed with Hannibal. He wasn’t some child incapable of taking care of himself. Who did Hannibal think he was?  
Hannibal blinked once. 

“Maybe not what I should be, but it’s enough to keep me going.” Will, despite his frustration, was put in check by Hannibal’s calculated look.

“Not good enough.” Hannibal had not moved from where he was when he checked for fever and Will became aware that he was very close. He gulped and pretended not to take notice of this, staring instead at Hannibal’s face. His hands fiddled with the edges of his jacket, which he had forgotten to take off. The room was warm.

Will started to say something – what he wasn’t sure – when Hannibal spoke. “Would you care to join me for dinner, Will?”

That caught him completely off guard. Dinner? With his FBI-mandated psychiatrist? A simple favour of driving him home was an extension of decency. Dinner was another matter entirely. That involved small talk and pleasant table conversation, unlike the darker matters of Hannibal’s office. Here was this man who was trying to get into his head and peel him apart for Jack Crawford to see and Will was seriously considering to agreeing to have dinner with him. He had no desire to be friendly with him, as he’d told him when they’d first met. However, for some reason, dinner enticed him beyond whatever resentment he harboured towards Hannibal.

As if sealing his fate, Hannibal said: “My place after you finish work tomorrow, at seven.”

Will’s answer tumbled through his mouth as if he weren’t in control of it. 

“Okay.”


End file.
